


tear stains on a road map to nowhere

by sedirktive (orphan_account)



Series: the house with concrete windows [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Minor Domestic Violence, Sadstuck, Self-Loathing, Sexual Violence, these tags make everything sound so much more painful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sedirktive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the other side of the room, he stops you from opening the door and running far away.</p><p>sequel to drops of fake rain on ceramic window pain</p>
            </blockquote>





	tear stains on a road map to nowhere

His voice reaches out to you from the darkness. “Where are you going?”

It’s not a bad question, either. Where are you going? Back down to Texas to work for that brother who pities you to make petty cash? Back to the streets to pop pills and open condoms in dark alleys with “friends”? Back to that dysfunctional other relationship that you could never have the guts to tell John about?

Where are you going? He asks again with his eyes.

You feel the weight of your beaten duffle bag, packed with clothes, money, and a sandwich, stifle your shrug. You make a weak attempt to answer. “Out.”

Cooly, you reach up and adjust the shades perched on your nose.

“Out,” John parrots and no god dammit John don’t do that. He’s not allowed to take your words and throw them back at you like a left-hook. He’s not allowed to use his pain to twist you up inside. He’s not allowed to want you to stay because you don’t want to leave but you have to because he’s too fucking good for someone like you and you hate yourself for making him care at all.

He’s standing on the other side of the room with a pair of your boxers slung low on his hips, giving you a sneak preview of what you had bought the premiere tickets to at a shabby bus stop. His hair is a nest of sleep and sex and he’s not wearing his glasses.

From the other side of the room, he stops you from opening the door and running far away.

“When are you coming home.” It’s a statement, not a question. It’s not where or with who or why. It’s when.

God dammit, John.

You don’t know. You don’t know, and that’s the worst part. It makes you angry. At him. At yourself.

Where are you going?

Across the room. To grab him, crush him, kiss him. You want to bruise those slender arms that did nothing but hold you, bite those warm lips that did nothing but caress you, and hurt the boy who did nothing but love you up to the point where you had to get away.

You don’t deserve this.

 _Hate me_ , you want to say as you practically throw John onto the couch and climb onto him. _Hit me_ , you want to shout as you pull away his boxers. _Forget me_ , you want to scream as you bruise him all over with teeth tongue fingers.

“I love you,” is all you can manage as he spreads his legs and begs for someone you think you lost a long time ago. Or someone you’re too scared to look for.

Pretend to be him: The Dave that John wants. Imagine you’re the boy on a hot summer’s day who’s flustered by the thought of wanting to hold hand with your best friend, that you’re the awkward teen making love to a girl and thinking about someone else the entire time, that it’s raining on your first kiss and the things running down your cheeks won’t leave tear stains on the road map to nowhere. Pretend that you’re not unstable and broken.

John doesn’t question you at all when you pull a bottle of lubricant from the front pocket of your jeans. He just watches you with an unreadable expression _god dammit, John_ as you apply some to yourself and seems to understand that you won’t be stretching him today.

When you push in, oh fuck when you push in, you close your eyes. You can practically hear his toes curl as he lets his head fall back and writhes beneath you. He opens his mouth and the sound that comes out is pure, unrefined, and raw sex.

Something inside you snaps.

You’re rough, cruel, spiteful, and fuck everything fuck you fuck fuck fuck because you love him so much and it hurts you that you try to hurt him to get away. There isn’t even any time to adjust; You ram into him with unforgiving force, using his shouts and yelps and pleas as fuel.

With the weight of your heavy heart, you pin him down and hold him there as you begin to go in and out of him like he’s the front door that you know so intimately.

John loops his arms around your neck and for a brief moment you hope he’ll snap your neck. It’s nothing like that though. He draws you in and kisses you wetly.

Your tongues touch at the tips. _Where are you going?_ You withdraw. _I don’t know._

He slides further into your mouth and kisses you deeply. _Don’t go, Dave._ You rub at the underside slowly. _I can’t stay._

John moans and pulls his fingers through your hair. _I need you._ You push the kiss past John’s lips. _That’s why I have to leave._

He bites your tongue and tries to kiss it better. _I love you. I love you. I love you._ He shy, but unrestrained. Scared but bold. Hurt but so desperately in love.

Hurt. Love. Hurt. Love. Hurt.

You don’t know anything anymore. All you can think about is John’s legs squeezing your hips and his nails in your back and the smooth feel of his stomach as he arches up into you and his lips kissing at every available inch of your skin and his eyes wide like the sky and wet with Seattle rain. You hate the rain. You love the rain.

His voice is the thunder. His body shakes with the sheer force of the sound that follows his ejaculation. You follow suit as he squeezes in on you and locks you up in his arms. The world pulses white for a moment and you leave dark fingerprints on John’s hips.

 _Something to remember me by_ , you think as you withdraw. Trembling, John falls into an exhausted, boneless slump. Last night’s long rounds finally kick in, and he all but passes out.

With the blanket from your duffel bag, you cover his limp form as you throw some clothes on haphazardly.

There’s a stray strand of hair on John’s face. You can’t resist pushing it out of the way before you lace your shoes at the front door.

Stop staring at him. It’s time to go.

Where are you going?

The front door closes silently behind you.

**Author's Note:**

> so now it's a series  
> im sorry for writing this but im not sorry  
> there will be more parts


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